


until I smile at you

by archer_of_fate



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - World War II, Deepthroating, First Time, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Niall-centric
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-09
Updated: 2013-09-09
Packaged: 2017-12-26 03:34:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,945
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/961101
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/archer_of_fate/pseuds/archer_of_fate
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>How Niall Horan grew up in the midst of a war, and how Louis Tomlinson made a lasting impression.</p>
            </blockquote>





	until I smile at you

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Randominity](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Randominity/gifts).



The sky above the Irish Sea is a brilliant blue, the few wispy clouds doing little to obscure the burning of the sun. The back of Niall’s neck feels warm, sweat dripping down his collar from his hair, but for all the heat he can’t shake the grin that curls at the corners of his mouth.

“Niall, mate, people’ll think you have a bird in Liverpool with that grin of yours,” Padraig Donnelly points out, swatting Niall on the shoulder in passing. Niall blushes easily and the entire crew of the _SS Irish Linden_ seems to be aware of it; the worst incident of teasing so far had been when the lads had ransacked his sleeping quarters, sneaking pin-up pictures in with his personal effects. His mother had found one of the stragglers in one of his pockets, and that had required some fast talking--the fact that the lady in question had been a blonde pointed to Donnelly, though he had never admitted it.

“And what if I did?” Niall blusters, returning to his task of sweeping the deck. The truth is, Sally O’Connell might have let him slip his hand up her jumper during the midst of a rather heated snogging session, but it didn’t go beyond that. Niall doesn’t have the heart to admit to the lads that their preconceived notions of him as the virginal fresh-out-of-school boy are mostly true, so he puts up a fight.

“Lad, if you did, I’d take back everything I ever said about you,” Donnelly says, smiling in the fashion that Niall’s learned means he’s up to no good at all. Niall shoots him a glare and purposely cuts him off with the handle of the broom.

“I can pull a bird,” he mutters, but he’s not so sure--Sally had fancied him, and done the pursuing. After a moment to convince himself, Niall pipes up a bit louder, “I can pull just fine, mate--maybe even better than you, eh?”

It isn’t necessarily fair considering Donnelly is recently married, but it doesn’t seem to faze him. Donnelly is the picture of amused--reddish eyebrows hiked up, a cheeky grin lurking at the corner of his mouth as he deadpans, “If you can pull as well I can--used to, else Alice will murder me--then Hitler has two balls.” 

Nial snorts at this, because the idea is preposterous, and despite the part of him that’s offended, he can’t help but laugh outright at Donnelly’s waggling eyebrows. _“Hitler has only got one ball…”_

Although Donnelly can’t carry a tune in a bucket, Niall is laughing so hard he can barely gasp out the second line. _“Göring has two but very small,”_ he sing-songs between peals of laughter, cheery mood restored.

He’ll show Donnelly what’s what, because Niall Horan doesn’t let a bet slip by--his pride depends on it--but he’s also curious because he’s never tried pulling before. It makes his head ache trying to think about what to even say to a girl, so he throws himself into finishing up and keeping up with Donnelly as they near Liverpool.

*

It turns out that whilst the birds might be attracted by Niall’s cheery grin and happy-go-lucky attitude, he’s pants at actually holding a conversation that doesn’t veer into territory that is too personal for a new acquaintance. His mother had always told him to be mindful of his mouth, but he can’t help but point out that his dance partner’s hair--bleached blonde--was beginning to go dark at the roots. Even a hasty, “But I like blondes” can’t salvage it; the girl gives Niall a dirty look and gathers up the remainder of her drink before returning to her girlfriends.

“You shouldn’t ever say anything about a bird’s hair, mate,” comes a lazy drawl from behind him, and Niall scowls, twisting around to snap something about how he meant to be helpful. When he sees the boy (man, because there’s a hint of stubble along a sharp jaw, and Niall stops that thought right there) the words die in his mouth. He’s gaping, because the sailor strongly resembles Frank Sinatra--and did he just say that out loud?

“You’re not so bad looking yourself,” the sailor quips, grin stretching from ear to ear. “I dunno who you’d be…” He screws up his face into a serious expression, clearly giving the question some thought, and Niall wants to stop him because this was all an honest mistake but can’t seem to form the words. “Leslie Howard, maybe, if you could get that intense look he does down.” Before Niall has a chance to protest, because he’s nowhere near as suave as Leslie bloody Howard, one suntanned hand is being extended towards him and well, he can’t be rude. “Able Seaman Louis Tomlinson, of the _HMS King George V_ , cheers.”

Niall laughs and at Louis’ curious look, he blurts, “Niall Horan, also a Seaman. _SS Irish Linden_ , though.” He swipes a hand nervously through his hair, and takes a generous drink from his beer, willing himself to not be so awkward. “It’s nice to have a bit of a night to yourself, because it seems like all I do is sail to and from Dublin--I reckon you’re busier, sallying forth to protect the known world and whatnot.”

Louis’ laugh is genuine, and the corners of his blue, blue eyes crinkle up in a way that makes Niall’s stomach lurch. _Must be too much beer,_ he thinks dimly, and he shoots a dubious look at his half-empty bottle. Finishing it off wouldn’t hurt, now would it? “Fuck me, but it’s crowded. Do you smoke?”

Niall shoots a look toward the table where Donnelly and the rest of his mates are getting well and truly plastered before lifting a shoulder in a shrug. “They won’t be leaving without me, but it is rather warm.” It’s the truth, but it isn’t simply because of the number of people packed into close confines, and Niall is hoping that the breeze will snap him out of this daze.

“Better already,” Louis announces, already fishing a packet and a lighter from his pockets as he shoulders the door open. “Want one?” Niall doesn’t have the chance to say anything before Louis is handing him one, watching him expectantly.

“I, uh…” He begins, blinking stupidly, because some strange Brit lighting a cigarette shouldn’t make him feel so warm all over. To prevent himself from inevitably saying something daft, Niall shoves the cigarette in his mouth. Louis steps forward, hands cupped around the lighter, and for the briefest moment their eyes meet over the flame; Niall thinks that he can smell him, smoke and soap and a hint of aftershave, and he steps back hastily. “Thanks, mate.”

“I wish I was out saving the world, you know.” Louis smiles at Niall’s look, but it’s just a shade too serious to be carefree. “It’s bollocks being stuck here--Kay-Gee-Five’s been dry docked here for almost a month now. I’m about to go stark raving mad!”

“But if you’re in solitary confinement, I don’t reckon you could go save the world from Hitler, eh? Silver linings!” Niall feels somewhat guilty for hoping that Louis won’t bring up Ireland’s neutrality, but he’s actually enjoying himself. Talking politics never ends well, in Niall’s experience, so he goes for the obvious subject change. “At least with the free time you can catch up on football.”

“Fair enough!” Louis smiling is something that Niall is trying to commit to memory--how his eyes crinkle, how the dim light from the street lamp illuminate the planes of his cheekbones. “It’s funny that you brought up Frank Sinatra. My mates Harry, Zayn, and Liam tease me about him all the time--I like to sing on occasion.”

Is that a flush underneath his tan? Niall can’t really tell, but if it is… If it were possible to be even more attractive, Louis had achieved it. “No, no--I love music too. I’m proper shite at dancing, as you may have noticed, but I play the guitar in my spare time. I sing a bit as well-- _'I’ll Never Smile Again'_ is a great song.”

“It’s my favourite,” Louis agrees, cigarette dangling from his lips for a moment before he’s ashing it, grinding it out under the heel of his shoe. _“I’ll never smile again, until I smile at you,”_ he sings, and he’s horribly, painfully good--Niall is dimly aware that he’s probably gaping again, but he doesn’t care. The tiny self-conscious laugh that Louis does when he breaks off makes something twist, warm and fond, in Niall’s chest.

“You’re bloody good! A regular Frank Sinatra, hey.” Niall grins and the sunny smile that his enthusiasm coaxes from Louis is something he wants to remember forever. “When this is all over, you ought to give singing a go, mate. You’d be great at it.”

“Assuming I don’t fucking snuff it first,” Louis grumbles, turning his silver lighter over and over in his hand, and the slump of his defeated shoulders is all too apparent. Niall, for once at a loss, simply stares and waits it out. “Fucking nearly got it once before, mate. Kay-Gee-Five had a collision, ‘s why it’s dry-docked, and nearly got myself drowned where it was taking on water.” The whites of his eyes gleam in the dim light, and Niall makes what he hopes is a sympathetic noise somewhere in the back of his throat.

Louis cuts him off, the snick of the lighter and the red glow of the cigarette, smoke curling between them as he exhales shakily. “But fuck me, mate, you Irish have it worst of all. Being neutral isn’t easy as pie, I reckon.”

Of course it isn’t, and anyone who thinks so is an idiot, but Niall knows that isn’t reassuring. He steps closer to Louis, who is smoking like his life depends on it, and touches his elbow lightly. When he doesn’t flinch away, Niall eases an arm around his shoulders, squeezing lightly. “Doesn’t matter who has it worse--you’re gonna make it, and you’re gonna be a proper singer, eh? Find a nice bird, settle down, have a few kids, you know.”

Louis slumps into him, and when he looks up, Niall is amazed at how devastatingly attractive he is even when he’s clearly exhausted and half-frantic with fear. “You’re fit, mate, what bird wouldn’t want you, eh?” Niall whispers, and it feels too intimate, Louis’ gaze inscrutable for a long moment, to the point where Niall is certain that he’s done something to offend him.

“I’m fucking dying for a slash, Jesus,” is what Louis says, and the implicit tone is there, that Niall will follow him around the back of the pub. Niall does, half out of awe-struck adoration, and part out of selfishness--he doesn’t want Louis to just slip away, not when he barely knows anything about him.

He’s true to his word, Louis is, and Niall feels like he’s burning up from the inside, and when did he ever consider sneaking looks at another man’s cock whilst taking a piss in a back alley? A complete stranger, no less, and the very thought of it makes a prickle of arousal race down his spine. He keeps his eyes firmly ahead, and Louis is so quiet beside him that Niall wonders what is wrong but is afraid to ask. There’s rustling of clothing as Louis puts himself back together, and then a muffled, _“Fuck, Tommo,”_ that Niall isn’t sure he’s meant to hear and a warm hand is pressing to his lower back.

“You can say no if you want, Niall,” Louis mutters, shoulder butting up against Niall’s back as he steps closer, “but I’d rather you didn’t.”

“Jesus Christ,” is Niall’s only response, because he wants Louis to keep saying his name--it sounds so much better coming from him. Niall twists, reaching for him, heedless of the fact that his cock is hanging out and his trousers are undone, needing to touch him. “Are you daft?” He teases, one arm curling about Louis’ waist, his free hand tangling in his perfectly-combed quiff. “All I could think about since I met you was snogging you senseless.”

Louis is all eager hands then, one slipping up under Niall’s shirt to tease at a nipple while the other splays over the exposed skin of Niall’s lower back. He grins and ducks closer, nosing into a hesitant first kiss that turns sloppy as Niall takes the initiative, licking into Louis’ mouth with intent as his hips tick forward, cock already going half-hard just from this and anticipation alone.

Anxiety forgotten now that Niall has given him enthusiastic permission to continue, Louis kisses hard, tongue fucking into Niall’s mouth with ease, the hand on Niall’s lower back slipping lower to squeeze at his arse. Niall mumbles a muffled curse into the tanned column of Louis’ neck, a gravelly, _“Fuck me,”_ that earns him a pleased snort and a smug, “I would, but we’re a bit exposed.”

Niall groans again, because now he’s all too aware of the stickily humid air, the fact that they’re in an alley, and that he’s one step away from rutting against a complete stranger. His cock gives an interested twitch, and Louis laughs, leaning back slightly so he can spit in his hand and stroke Niall from base to tip.

“You’re so flushed, you know that. So pretty, Niall, Jesus…” Louis is muttering to himself, head tipped down to watch where Niall is shamelessly fucking his fist, cock full and flushed red. Niall fumbles at Louis’ flies, but it’s too much friction and heat and Louis and he can’t manage to get them open. He comes all over himself and Louis’ hand, biting down hard on his lip, and it’s only after he’s had a moment that he realizes that Louis is still hard.

“Shite!” Niall is certain he is blushing red to the tips of his ears, and he’s stumbling over his words as they all seem to want to come out at the same time. “I don’t normally go off that fast, I swear, and what about you…” He shoots Louis a look, considering, and resumes picking at his flies. It takes a bit of work but he gets them open, and after a moment to hitch up the trousers that are threatening to slide off of his hips, Niall is slipping to his knees.

“I’ve never done this before, but I want to try.” Louis’ eyes are impossibly, impossibly blue and his mouth is swollen red, but the way he cups Niall’s face is gentle.  
“Wrap your hand around the base and do what feels right to you.”

Niall does, and presses a kiss to the underside of Louis’ cock, tongue flattening against the vein as he licks from base to tip. The smell of him is intoxicating--Niall buries his nose into the dip of Louis’ hip and just breathes him in for a bit, wanking him steadily, but eventually Niall has to give into curiosity.

He opens his mouth and sucks the tip of Louis’ dick in, mindful of his teeth, and the gasp from above him very nearly makes him smile. Niall sucks for a bit, experimenting with how much he can take in, inching downward determinedly. His gag reflex has always been somewhat keen, but he wants to make Louis feel good, and so when he takes in too much and gags around him, Niall simply draws off a bit to catch his breath before trying it again.

“Oh god, Niall,” and Louis sounds absolutely wrecked, voice hoarse with need. “Can I, I need to…”

Niall presses forward, taking Louis into his throat even though he gags, eyes watering, and tries as best he can to will Louis into moving with his eyes alone.

“Jesus fuck,” Louis gasps, one thumb skirting across Niall’s lower lip, hand sliding firmly into Niall’s hair as he seems to forget himself, tugging hard as he grinds out, “I’m close.”

Niall pulls back, hand working faster on Louis’ cock, and waits, eyes trained to Louis’ face. “Come on, Louis. For me, please,” and Louis throws his head back, silent as he comes all over Niall’s face and hand.

Niall waits until Louis has returned to himself before licking Louis’ come from his lips, grinning up at him. “Did I do well,” he prompts, leaning back slightly to tuck himself back into his pants and trousers, unable to wipe the cheeky grin from his face.

“I think you’d do with a bit more practice,” Louis says eventually, reaching down to help Niall up, and Niall laughs. “Don’t think I can smuggle you aboard Kay-Gee-Five though--reckon the lads would notice a pretty Irishman.”

“I’ll leave the Royal Navy to you, mate.” Niall prods him in the side, reaching up after a moment to straighten out Louis’ quiff. “Just try not to get yourself killed, aye?” He takes the lit cigarette Louis offers, and reality comes crashing back in that moment, in the serious look that passes between them. Niall knows he’ll probably never see Louis again, but he especially doesn’t want to see him as a corpse--Irish ships respond to all distress calls, and they both know it. It might be a long shot, but Niall doesn’t want to take any chances. “Look, I know I don’t know you from Adam, so don’t get tetchy, but I want you to have this.”

Niall fishes about his neck for the silver chain, wriggling it loose and slipping it over his head before offering it to Louis. “It’s Brendan the Navigator, patron saint of sailors. My Da gave it to me as a good luck present when I took up being a sailor, but I reckon you need it more than me, mate, and I won’t take no for an answer.” He shoots Louis a look and nudges his hand, taking it and pressing the medal into it firmly, daring him to try to give it back.

Niall is surprised that Louis simply admits defeat, setting his cigarette firmly between his lips so he can use both hands to slip the medal on and settle it under his vest and top. “Thank you, honestly, mate. If you ever find yourself out in Doncaster after all this is over…”

Niall grins and pretends not to notice the tears that seem to be gathering, or Louis’ frantic blinking as he tries to keep them at bay. “I’ll look for you if I’m ever out that way,” he promises even though he has no idea where Doncaster is. “Same to you if you're ever to Dublin. Best of luck and all, but my mates’ll be hunting me down if I don’t get back.”

Louis nods and pats Niall on the shoulder in a friendly manner, but he doesn’t say anything else. Niall leaves him there, cigarette burning to ashes between his fingers as he looks up at the night sky, and goes back inside to find Donnelly and the lads.

*

The breeze off the sea is biting, tearing through Niall’s woolen overcoat with ease. It’s mid-April, but the weather is dire and overcast, with rain imminent. The _Linden_ is bound for Fishguard, carrying a stocked cargo hold of coal, and Niall can’t shake the feeling that something is not right. His lucky white socks are dingy at best no matter how much he washes them, so he’ll just have to hope that dingy is good enough to swing their luck.

It’s half past noon when the call about distress rockets comes through, and Niall and the rest of the crew rush to prepare for the inevitability of finding survivors. Lifeboats are unearthed from beneath protective tarp, first aid kits located, and all Niall can think is that he hopes that whatever they find isn’t as bad as it will surely be.

Niall had heard on the radio that the _HMS King George V _had had the honor of being visited by the royal family, and was shortly thereafter transferred to the Pacific. It is reassuring to know, at least, that Louis is safe and away from the constant menace of u-boats and blockade runners. The heat of the Pacific seems like a world away, and despite the knowledge that it’s every bit (if not more so) dangerous, Niall tells himself that Louis will be fine.__

He has to be, because Niall had saw a kindred spirit in him, in the overwhelming sense of fear beneath an easy grin, and Frank Sinatra needs a run for his money.

“We should be nearing the coordinates within the hour, mate,” Donnelly whispers, hands wrapped around a mug of steaming tea. “It might be a convoy, or what’s left of one. Are you going with me when we go out?”

Niall nods, glugging down tea so fast that it burns his mouth. He feels cold inside, trying to prepare for the inevitable brush with death and terrified that they will somehow be caught in the crossfire despite trying to do a good turn. Sometimes he likes to imagine what the Pacific would be like, and in his daydreams Louis is smiling and happy, Niall’s medal dangling around his neck, and Niall is happy because they are together.

It starts to rain, a perfect beginning to an already dismal mission, and Niall smothers his groan.

*

Some days Niall gets the time to make the trek from Dublin back to Mullingar, and everything seems better and horribly worse at the same time.

To be home and simply hearing the voices of his loved ones is a healing balm that Niall can’t experience in Dublin. Dublin is where he lives now due to the nature of his work, but home is where his family in; when he goes home, Niall finally feels like he can breathe again.

But they don’t understand what it’s like, to have seen the things he has seen. Niall dreams of them sometimes, when he does dream; the hundreds of drowned sailors, the smell of burning oil and flesh, the sheer amount of carnage that war causes. 

He feels connected to his family and disconnected in a fundamental way all at the same time, and Niall wishes there was someone there who understood, who he could talk to.

That is when he misses Louis most of all, when he thinks of him the most. Niall wonders what he is doing, where he is in the Pacific, if he still thinks of him. 

Most of the time Niall thinks he’s foolish for pining after a man he barely knows, for clinging to one stolen night in an alley behind a pub, but it’s the hope of it that keeps him going when he feels like he’s going to shatter into pieces.

*

On a day in January, Niall’s life changes forever.

The day is easing into dusk as Niall and the other sailors move about the ship, cleaning and going about their duties as quickly as possible so they could return below decks. Donnelly is over the moon, elated because Alice had told him that by autumn he would be a father, prattling on about how he will teach his lad to be the best football player in the neighborhood.

“But I thought you were pants at footie, mate,” Niall ribs, laughing at Donnelly’s dirty look. “Alice is the one with the football talent, or so she told me when last I saw her!”

Donnelly is easy to get a rise out of, and he’s spluttering out a retort when the stern of the ship explodes, the entire ship shuddering from the impact of the torpedo. Niall pitches backward from the impact, landing awkwardly with his knee twisted. Pain lances down his leg, taking his breath away, and he simply lays there for a long moment before sitting up, scooting toward Donnelly as best he can on one knee, favoring the injured one.

“Donnelly, mate, we have get the lifeboats free.” Niall shakes him, and it seems to snap him out of his daze. There’s a mad scramble as the men that aren’t injured or at the radios race to the lifeboats at the bow of the ship, and Niall grunts as Donnelly hoists him up, and they hobble after them.

“Focus on the lifeboat, mate,” Niall pleads, waving him off from where Donnelly had gingerly lowered him. The deck tilts under Niall and he feels sick to his stomach, afraid to look at his leg--his knee is already beginning to swell, and the horrendous crunch he heard points to something serious. He wishes he could be helping; being helpless means he has too much time to worry about the tilting of the deck as they steadily take on water. 

Finally they get the lifeboat rigged properly on the davit and Donnelly hoists Niall into the boat, taking a place beside him. The other sailors pile in, and the command is given to lower the lifeboat--as it lurches to meet the sea, Niall leans over the side and is violently sick, grateful that he is on the outward facing side. 

“You look like shite, Horan,” Donnelly is muttering, and Nially wipes his mouth on sleeve, slumping gracelessly against him. “You’re not bleeding are you?”

His head feels like it’s full of wool, fuzzy and warm, and Niall dimly registers that he nods. “Don’t let them take me leg, Donnelly. Who’ll teach your lad to play footie proper then?”

*

They don’t take the leg, but they give him crutches and tell him he will never play football again. 

Niall feels like his world is ending; not only can he not play football, but the doctors also say his knee might never heal properly. His Da tells him that the rescue of the Linden was in the papers, and that he and the others were so lucky to have been found; Niall forbids him to speak of the incident, and tries to focus on the rehabilitation process.

He has just graduated to a cane and completed his first experimental hobble around his flat when Padraig Donnelly, of all people, bursts into his living room.

“The war’s over, mate! Isn’t that good news?” Donnelly hugs Niall, and the closeness of him very nearly makes Niall break down. He wants to sag against him, because Niall is so tired, so weary of everything.

“The best,” Niall rasps, one arm coming up to curl around Donnelly for a moment before dropping away. “Is Alice nearly ready to have the baby?”

It’s easier to forget about all his troubles when he has something else to focus on, and Niall laughs as Donnelly details the strange intricacies of pregnant women. “Expect strange cravings, mate! Alice could eat her weight in pickles, see, and I never thought she was fond of them before.” 

“I’ll leave the babies to you, mate,” Niall says, forcing a cheery grin. “I’d be shite with them, especially now.” He flaps a hand at his bum knee, and misses Donnelly’s concerned look entirely. “Reckon you’ll have to find someone else to teach your lad to play footie properly.”

“When your Da was over here last from Mullingar, he told me the doctors said you were making remarkable progress, mate. Doesn’t that count for something?” Donnelly’s face is furrowed with concern, but all Niall sees is pity, and it makes something hard and angry twist in his gut.

“I’ll probably never be able to sail again--that was my life. In what world is that ever a good thing?” It feels good to yell; Niall would never yell at his father, and he’s been storing up all his despair, rage, and hopelessness inside. It was only a matter of time until it would come to a head, but even Niall knows Donnelly shouldn’t be the one he’s hollering at.

He should be angry with himself, and dimly Niall realizes that in the midst of explaining why his life is over, he must have started crying. Tears drip off of his chin, and he’s still trying to talk around his sobs; Donnelly sighs and reaches for him. 

“If you’re not around when this baby comes, I’ll never forgive you. You’re my best mate, Niall.” Niall snuffles into Donnelly’s neck and falls quiet, listening to his calm voice under his cheek, vibrating into and through him. “There isn’t a thing you can’t do if you get it into your head that you’re going to do it. Didn’t you always talk about singing? Not everyone’s destined for the sea, you know.”

It’s only later, sprawled on his tiny bed and staring up at the peeling wallpaper, that Niall comes to the conclusion that Donnelly is right. Moping about is getting him nowhere, and he needs to find himself again, no matter how hard the going gets.

Even though it’s nearing eleven o’clock at night, Niall hobbles over to the turntable and settles the needle at the beginning of the LP.

He sings along to the record quietly, and begins to formulate a plan of action. 

*

Niall starts off singing in the pub around the corner from his house, playing guitar for the traditional Irish band on Wednesdays, and before long he’s got a gig at a jazz club downtown. He’s not been happier in a long time, and it’s easier to feel like he fits in with his family again; the yawning chasm of despair is there, but Niall is learning how to deal with it, how to buck up and soldier on.

“I think we’ll do _'I’ll Be Seeing You'_ after the break, Niall,” Janet murmurs in his ear, hand pressed to his bicep. “Seems like that kind of night, you know?”

Niall reaches to adjust the tuning on his guitar, and hides his frown. Janet and Billy must have been at odds again; it was always noticeable when they were on the offs because Janet only wanted to sing romantic ballads.

Half-way through _'I’ll Be Seeing You' _, the door at the back of the pub opens, letting in a gust of damp wind from outside. The man that enters is dresses nondescriptly in a brown suit, and Niall doesn’t give it a second thought--probably just another regular.__

Louis Tomlinson corners him after his set, two pints in his hand and a questioning look in his eyes. He looks different--older, but if anything grown into himself more, and every bit as handsome. “You’re a fucking hard one to find, Niall Horan.”

“Perhaps it’s intentional,” Niall quips, taking the pint and drinking long and deep. Louis’ eyes are warm, lingering on Niall’s mouth, and the fact that that hasn’t changed makes something overwhelmingly fond curl around Niall’s heart. “You look better than when I saw you last. Are you still in the Navy?”

Louis has barely touched his pint, and they’re still standing awkwardly by the bar, Niall’s guitar case taking up room. “Ah, but come back to mine. Privacy and whatnot--there’s plenty to tell you, mate.”

The grateful look in Louis’ eye is worth it; if he notices Niall’s limp on the way out, he doesn’t say a word.

*

It’s more awkward at Niall’s than it was at the club, but at least Niall doesn’t have to worry about censoring himself as strictly. “Jesus, you’re a sight for sore eyes,” he says at the same time that Louis gets up to rifle through his lone suitcase.

“I was laid up in the hospital for months. Shattered my knee to bits,” Louis points out, gesturing with a flip hand-flap at one knee, and Niall’s mouth goes dry. He doesn’t say more, and Niall isn’t about to press the issue--he knows that he doesn’t want to talk about the war, and would never pressure anyone else into talking about it either.

“Fuck me, but we’re twins then.”

The surprised look on Louis’ face as he sets a square package aside results in a soft smile curling across Niall’s face; after a moment, Louis’ hands him the package with a mumbled, “Figured you’d appreciate this.”

The size of it make Niall think they are LPs, and when he tugs off the brown paper, he laughs. “Trust you to remember something like that,” he remarks, one eyebrow quirking in amusement as he reads the slipcover for _‘I’ll Never Smile Again.’_

“You called me Frank Sinatra. A compliment like that doesn’t get forgotten, mate.” Louis is grinning, but it seems hesitant, and he nods to the package. “There’s another. I hope you don’t have that one, else…”

“Oh!” Niall is beaming up at him, the brand-new Edith Piaf single cradled gently in his hands.

“Er, I heard it on the radio and it made me think of you. I don’t understand a bit of French--do you? Oh god, what if you don’t?--but it sounded pretty. You’re pretty, I mean, and you like singing…” 

“Louis,” Niall cuts across him gently, but Louis doesn’t hear him, still rambling about the record. “Louis--what are you doing here?”

Louis falls quiet, staring at Niall for a long moment before he draws himself up to his full height, thumbs hooked behind his braces as he says slowly, “Why, I’m wooing you, you right idiot.”

The idea is so ridiculous that Niall collapses into a fit of laughter, tears leaking from his eyes as he giggles like a fool. “You don’t…”

“Oh god, you’re married aren’t you!” Louis is going off on a wild tangent, scrambling to gather his suitcase and hat. “I’m the idiot--it was one night five years ago. You probably forgot all about me, and I am the idiot, hunting you down and everything. I should go, yeah?”

Niall gets to his feet carefully, ever mindful of his bum knee, and reels him in by the tie, teeth clacking together painfully as his brings their mouths together. Louis makes a surprised noise but eventually goes still for a moment before he gives in, letting Niall lick into his mouth with a quiet moan.

“I couldn’t get married, ‘cause I’m too struck on you and your stupid hair and your pretty eyes.” Niall can’t help but grin at Louis’ dumbstruck look, and he kisses him again, lips dragging down over his chin as he pulls back to add, “I am impressed that you came all the way to Dublin to find me. That’s impressive, mate, truly.”

The ruddy flush of color at Louis’ cheeks is horribly endearing, and Niall just wants to take him to bed right then and there. He curls a hand around Louis’ shoulder and leans close to put his mouth by his ear.

“I’ve got that gag reflex under control now. What would you say to testing it?”

*

They are on even footing now, Niall bearing Louis into the mattress, straddling his hips as he kisses him senseless. Louis was not the last, and it has been five years--Niall intends to put his experience to good use, if only because they’ve barely begun and Louis is already breathing hard.

“You’re trying to kill me,” he grumbles, hands carding through Niall’s hair as Niall sucks a love bite into the underside of his jaw. His hips twitch under Niall’s, a dry friction that isn’t good enough, trying to line them up to find a better angle.

“Hardly,” Niall laughs, loosening Louis’ tie and tugging it free. “Though if you keep it up, I’ll come and then I’ll be bloody useless after.” Louis bats his hands away and unbuttons his own shirt with a single-minded efficiency, and Niall’s mouth goes dry when he sees the familiar silver chain around Louis’ neck.

“You kept it.”

“‘Course I did,” Louis mumbles, going red again. “Got me through quite a few scrapes, too, so ta for that.”

Niall kisses him then, and it’s different--this isn’t just a tumble in an alley behind a pub, or a tumble after seeing each other again.

It’s intimate, the way Louis hitches him close to work a hand into Niall’s pants, sucking on his tongue in a way that’s filthy but also sweet. Niall smothers his groan into Louis’ neck, lips pressed to the chain, and the sudden need to see Louis naked is overwhelming.

Between the two of them they make short work of their clothing until Niall can see his medal there, and he spreads a palm over it, over Louis’ heart, fingers curling into chest hair as he leans down to kiss him. Niall is horrible at words, but he hopes that Louis understands that he doesn’t do this with anyone, and when they part Niall stays pressed close, sharing Louis’ breath as they rest, foreheads tipped together.

“God, I need to fuck your throat, Niall,” Louis whispers, and Niall kisses him once, hard, before slithering down the length of his body, pausing every so often to press a kiss to tan skin along the way. He relishes the way that Louis props himself up on his elbows, watching him like he’s the only thing that matters.

Niall swallows him down in one go, eyes burning from the lack of practice, and Louis’ head thunks back to the pillows hard, hips twitching up into Niall’s mouth as he drives himself deeper. After a moment Niall pulls back, spit dripping down his chin, wanking Louis quickly, thumb pressing ruthlessly into the slit with every pull as he catches his breath.

This time when he goes down, he drags Louis’ hands to his head and waits. “ _Fuck_ , Niall,” Louis sighs, gripping tight and guiding Niall down onto his cock, holding him there as his fucks into him, and just when Niall thinks it will be too much, that his throat can’t handle more, Louis guides him back up. “Christ, I’m so close.”

Niall hums around Louis’ cock, shoved deep down his throat, and the strangled gasp above him is all the true warning he gets before Louis is coming, body going tense. Niall swallows and pulls off, collapsing with his head pressed to Louis’ thigh and wiping his mouth with his forearm.

“I think you’ve had a lot more practice,” Louis croaks, hand carding through Niall’s messy hair, looking flushed and fond as he raises his head to smile down at Niall. “Come up here, yeah?”

Niall moves as fast as he ever has, and Louis tugs him close, pressed shoulder to chest to thigh as he spits in his palm and worms his arm down between them. The angle is surely awkward, but Niall can’t bring himself to care--Louis is wrapped around him, stealing his breath as they kiss, nibbling at Niall’s bottom lip as he pulls him off. It isn’t long before Niall comes, sticky and wet, across both their stomachs with Louis swallowing his groan as he kisses him deeply.

“Fuck.”

Louis laughs and totters to an upright position, leaning over the edge of the bed to reach for his trousers. He passes Niall a lit cigarette after a moment, dropping his lighter back into his pocket, and settles back against the headboard, blowing smoke rings at the ceiling.

Niall isn’t keen on letting the come dry, so he gets up and roots about for a flannel, cigarette dangling from his mouth as he wipes himself down. “Catch,” he warns, tossing the rag at Louis, who catches it one-handed, and Niall can’t help the interested way his dick twitches--he likes a person who knows what to do with their hands, after all.

“Are you coming back?” Louis has dropped the flannel to the floorboards, sprawling lazily across Niall’s bed with his head propped in his hand when Niall returns with _'La vie en rose'_ in hand. “Feeling sentimental, are we?”

“Perhaps you bring it out in me, aye?” Niall cracks a grin as he sets the needle down before going back to bed, taking the opportunity to crawl up the length of Louis’ body and settle flat beside him. He tangles Louis’ chain around his index finger, pausing every so often to ash the cigarette in the ash-tray that rests on his bedside table. 

He doesn’t understand a bit of French, but the longing is palpable in Edith Piaf’s voice and feelings are universal. Niall sneaks a look at Louis only as the song is ending, and he’s surprised to find Louis looking at him, a soppy look on his face. “What’s it mean?”

Louis flushes and looks away. “Er, the title means ‘life in pink’ but it’s about… looking at life through rose-colored glasses. Everything’s wonderful, you know?”

Niall leans up and kisses him, tangling a hand in Louis’ mussed hair. “If you would stay, everything’d be rosy with me.” His serious expression fades into a cheeky grin as he prods Louis in the cheek. “So I reckon your wooing worked.”

“D’you mean it? About me staying with you--you don’t even know me, really.”

Niall shrugs. “We’ll figure it out as we go. I reckon if you get to be Frank Sinatra, I can be your Gene Kelly--minus the dancing, of course.”

Louis laughs and tugs Niall close, nuzzling into his neck. “I take it you’ve seen Anchors Aweigh then? Well, I guess it is true--I found a naive sailor on liberty, but I fell for him instead of the bird. Wouldn’t that be a film!”

Niall mumbles his agreement and closes his eyes, a wave of contentment washing over him, and knows that even if times have been rough in the years before, that they’re starting to look up now.

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to Randominity who inspired this with her love of Nouis! My fascination for all things wartime is probably also showing, but oh well! The _SS Irish Linden_ did not exist, but was inspired by other incidents involving Irish ships during the war. The _HMS King George V_ did exist, and was put up in Liverpool after a horrendous accident with another Royal Navy ship. In order of appearance, the songs that figure into this fic--[Hitler Has Only Got One Ball](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VPeM0BGGt80), [I'll Never Smile Again](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SKyi8suBr6I) by Frank Sinatra and the Tommy Dorsey Orchestra, [I'll Be Seeing You](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Tsfbp5aEAQE) by Vera Lynn, and [La vie en rose](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rzeLynj1GYM) by Edith Piaf.


End file.
